


To Collect a Hundred Moments

by chaoticrandomness



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Tragedy, Bad Fic, Body Horror, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Drunken Shenanigans, Family, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Gymnastics, Historical, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Real Events, Introspection, Letters, Male-Female Friendship, Mentor/Protégé, POV Original Character, Reflection, Romance, Scars, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticrandomness/pseuds/chaoticrandomness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I write a series of ficlets for aph-canon-100.tumblr.com.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angry Letter To God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Estonia gets dumped into yet another parallel universe, and yells at God.

Dear God,

 

Hello? Can you hear me?! You know, that guy who you dumped into that parallel universe with girl-versions of everyone he knew?

 

Well, I’d vastly prefer for that universe to be the only one that I was aware of. I really did not need to know that there was at least a third world were I existed, okay?! And in case you’re wondering which one I’m telling you about, it’s the one with everyone as fictional characters in a popular webcomic.

 

I don’t mind that bit, honestly. I don’t mind having a fanbase, but…. okay, maybe I do. I do mind having a nymphomaniac fanbase which is creepily obsessed with us having sex with everything and everyone that’s ever existed under the sun.

 

And yes, I know that most people are perfectly sane and my life reads like it was written by a drunken torture-addict who loves killing people, so they can’t really look into that for ideas. But why sex?

 

Why exactly do they seemingly have no concept of the Westermarck Effect? The one where you really wouldn’t want to have sex with people who you’re related to or grown up with? Which also seems to touch on the fact that incest is also a very good way to ensure that if you ever have kids, they’ll have a higher rate of ending up with mental or physical disorders?

 

Okay, I do know that I shouldn’t be including this segment, for the cast is primarily male…. but, somehow, despite the fact that it is biologically impossible, people are kind of overly-interested in writing children that result from intercourse between homosexual intercourse. Or maybe I’m just yelling about incest because I happen to be an unfortunate witness to a relationship of this nature which involves two people who really should go to a mental hospital to sort out their issues?

 

Actually, that’s kind of a nice lead into this next bit. I understand that people all have their interests, but…. why exactly would people want to read about abuse? Why exactly do people look at an abusive relationship, and come out with the impression of romance? There are about eight million other things they could write about, but instead they decide to focus on how to write abuse as love. Or something like that, but the point still stands. Please, go seek help. I’m sorry if that was rude.

 

Also, people’s personalities cannot be boiled down to a single word. I can understand the difficulties you face with writing a bunch of immortal beings whose personalities change with their nations, but turning us all into one-dimensional caricatures with personalities based off of throwaway lines is really not the way to go here. People are multifaceted, and display different faces of themselves to different people. So are immortals. On another note, one’s taste in sexual positioning also has nothing to do with their personality, so please don’t think that they’re correlated.

 

In short, I have no desire to be aware of anyone in this universe and would like to unsee most of it, but I need to prevent myself from being consumed with horror.

 

Sorry.

 

 


	2. Vowel Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I remove vowels and discuss Stockholm Syndrome with the Nordics.

I’m finally going to do it. I’m finally going to ask him about the syndrome, and if he has it towards me.

 

We’ve been married for quite some time, and he seems happy enough about life…. but our introduction to each other was me breaking him out of Denmark, technically kidnapping him, and being in a position of power over him for all of our escape.

 

Over time, this imbalance shifted until we were in a more equal position, but something about his behavior unsettled me. His sudden shift of how he viewed me set me on end, but I couldn’t put a name to my feelings and it was all just unsubstantiated paranoia…. until the bank robbery in 1973.

 

(It shouldn’t be called Stockholm Syndrome. It should be called Helsinki Syndrome, and Stockholm should be used for the other way around, when a kidnapper falls in love with their victim.

 

For that’s how we fell in love.)

 

There’s enough evidence to debunk this claim, but fears are always unsubstantiated.

 

* * *

 

“Are you alright?” he asks as he wakes up to me sitting at my desk and staring at the floor, about to shoot the bullet that’ll potentially shatter our life together.

 

_Just tell him the truth._

“Dyhvckholmsdrm?” I ask.

 

“What? I’m sorry, what did you just say?” he answers, and I don’t know if he’s surprised because I’m wrong or because I’m giving him an escape route…. either way, I’ll just tell him the question again.

 

“Dyhvckholmsdrm?” I repeat, and then I realize that what’s coming out of my mouth aren’t words, but random, borderline vowel-less mumblings for some reason…. but maybe I’m just nervous.

 

“Dyhvstckhlsndrm?!” I exclaim, but the vowels have completely disappeared this time, like my words are being stuck in my throat by outside forces for some reason….

 

“Should I get you some water?” he asks, as I grab my throat, as if to claw the words out…. no, I’m not going insane, or I don’t think I’m insane, but….

 

_What if you try to say something else?_

“Dylvmflnd?” I ask, and the vowels have disappeared again, along with my husband…. so, I can think the words, but I can’t say anything. It’s like an outside force is stripping me of my powers of self-expression…. but why would anyone want to do that to me?

 

_Okay, let’s try something else. Can you write?_

There’s a notepad on the table. I grab it right before he comes back into the room with a glass of water, and attempt to write as he takes my hand while handing me the glass, accidentally drenching the paper…. like someone’s conspiring to prevent us from communication.

 

Like someone’s laughing at this stunning mess of discourse.

 

* * *

 

“Did you have to curse him to be unable to say vowels, Norge?”

 

“....you told me to do something for April Fool’s Day. I just did the first thing that popped into my head.”

 

“.....you know, he’s probably going to find us, because we’re hiding underneath his bed?”


	3. Help Me, The Printer's Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get Seychelles, Monaco, and creative methods of fixing printers.

I walk into my computer room….. and am greeted by my sister whacking the printer with an inflatable fish. Part of me is convinced that I’m seeing things or that my glasses aren’t working, but I dust them off, and she’s still battering the printer.

 

“....Victoria, I’m sorry…. but what on earth are you doing?” I ask, walking towards the computer and almost slipping on a sheet of paper. She looks up from her attempt at murdering the printer through blunt-force trauma, and turns towards me.

 

“The printer’s broken. Want to help me fix it?” she calmly answers, like I’m can’t see that what she’s doing is perfectly rational, that you are supposed to fix your printer by bashing it with a fish….

 

_Great, is she getting to me too? Victoria, I love you, but…. you have the world’s strangest way of looking at the world._

“...um, wouldn’t you just be breaking it even further by whacking it with a fish? How did it break?” I ask, wading even further into the sea of paper that’s covering the rug.

 

“Can’t you see that I look like an idiot? So, the printer thinks I either don’t exist or am someone else, for I don’t look like that…. anyways, can you call the store and tell them that the printer’s defective, Celine?” she rambles, shoving a photo of me and our older brother into my face, which looks perfectly normal.

 

_I’m really sure that the people at the store want to hear that our printer was broken by a fish._

“.....anyways, so the printer’s an idiot, for I’m not melanin-deprived, or…. our printer’s been hijacked by aliens who can’t see the color brown!” my sister exclaims, as I pull my phone out of my pocket.

 

_How…. exactly do you reach that conclusion, Victoria?_

“Are you sure you didn’t print out one of me?” I ask, as she proceeds to bash the printer again.

 

“No, for I don’t look like you! See!” she exclaims, pulling up an image on the screen of her and Francis from our vacation last summer…. which does look like the one in my hand, only a lot more colorful.

 

“....have you tried to replace the cartridges? That’s probably why they’re all whitewashed?” I answer, dodging the fish as I attempt to open the printer, which is hopefully alive and not murdered by my sister….

 

“Well, the computer said that we’re not out of ink, so it’s not that…. and I happened to be holding a fish, so I tried to fix it, but then it kept printing a bunch of other stuff like it was going to fight me…. so our printer has a brain, and I was defending myself!” she cheerfully exclaims, putting the fish down and yanking the lid of the printer off.

 

_Okay…. I’m going to call tech support, Victoria. I really don’t think your way of looking at the world is going to work…._

“Hello? Tech support?” I ask, as my sister ensconces herself in the nearby chair, most likely plotting her next plan of attack against our malfunctioning printer. “What are you supposed to do when someone whacks your printer with a fish?”

 

 


	4. Development of Musical Artistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get a different take on stories staring original characters. Or in which I write about musical artistry with one.

For all my life, I’ve been strangely drawn to sound. People say that they can’t live without their eyesight, but that’s wrong.

 

Without sound, life is empty. Life is filled with a constant symphony of background noise, and I desire to create order of it all.

 

I suppose that’s why I’ve been so drawn to music. For that’s the way we try to make sense of life’s backdrop.

 

* * *

 

I started learning how to play the violin when I was in school, and I was instantly drawn to how I could manipulate sound.

 

I wanted to create my own combinations of it, to manipulate it so it was both beautiful and reflective of the world I lived in….. but as I progressed through the years, I kept realizing that there was something missing from my playing.

 

My technique was solid, and I was able to pick up the details behind how to play, but there was something missing. The music felt flat, like it was just the boring background noise everyone else saw sound as….

 

Thankfully, some guy had moved in next door, and appeared to be offering violin lessons. Or he just happened to own a violin, but that didn’t matter.

 

_If I was to get better, what better place to begin that learning from the masters?_

* * *

 

Thankfully, the guy with the violin didn’t seen to leave his house at all, so I just knocked on his door one Saturday afternoon, hoping that he’d realize that I was here for violin lessons and not some crazy saleswoman.

 

The first thing I noticed about him after he opened the door was that he was incredibly handsome, with dark hair and violet eyes that matched the color of his jacket…. and he was also about twice my age and about to technically be in a position of power over me.

 

_Yay. Well, hello, random handsome neighbor who I am now taking violin lessons from…. oh wait, I have to ask you to let me…._

As if he’d read my mind, he picked up my case and began leading me through the hallways of his house, until we reached a room with a set of music stands, chairs, and a piano. It was almost unnatural how quiet his house was, like I’d walked into a place that was frozen in time.

 

He sat down on the piano bench, and appeared to be gesturing towards me. I was about to ask him why he hadn’t said anything, but maybe he was deaf, which’d explain why his house was so quiet..... but if he was deaf, he’d also be an incredibly horrible teacher.

 

_Well, I can’t waste a Saturday morning. Might as well play, and hope he can help me. If all else fails, I can learn sign language?_

I pulled my violin out of its case and propped up the copy of the _Adagietto_ from Symphony No. 5’s first violin part on the stand. I probably should’ve pulled out one of the solos I was working on, but something about the piece called out to me, like it was seeking to be played…. so I began my performance.

 

Like every single other thing I’d played, it was technically solid and the dynamics were in place, but it was still incredibly boring, even with the sheer amount of vibrato I’d added in an attempt to make it sound more interesting.

 

_I think I’d actually prefer if he was deaf, for he’s not going to have fallen asleep at the sheer soropificity of my playing….. I guess I’ll leave now, the soundlessness of this house is freaking me out…._

The tapping of a bow pulled me out of my thoughts, before I was engulfed in a sea of music.

 

_Wow…. this is beautiful…. it’s like bottled romance…. tragic romance? Bottled tragedy? The world isn’t usually this sad, but it’s a sort of beautiful sadness…. what song is this?! It’s amazing!_

The music stopped as abruptly as it began, and I began to cry. I didn’t realize that my violin teacher was playing the music on my stand until he passed me my music before sending me off.

 

* * *

 

My brother was incredibly confused when I asked him to check out every single book on how to learn sign language from the elementary school’s library, but he finally acquiesced after ten minutes and several cookies.

 

I, on the other hand, was analyzing every single aspect of my playing. What was I doing wrong? I’d seen an example of the Adagietto done right, but that didn’t explain my errors at all.

 

_Let yourself forget. Throw yourself headfirst into the music, without caring for technique._

I grabbed the violin and tried to throw myself into the music, but all I got was a sea of out of tune notes. A second attempt was made, but the notes became even more out of tune than the first.

 

_Well, you can always try again tomorrow._

I packed up my violin as the sounds of conversation and cooking floated into the music room, distracting me from the music.

 

* * *

 

_How many types of sign language are there?!_

My brother did bring me all of the books on sign language, but I probably should’ve told him to not bring him any of the ones that were of foreign languages.

 

_ASL vs. GSL vs. FSL vs. BSL…. how am I supposed to figure out which one he used?_

Like last week, I showed up at my handsome neighbor’s house with my violin, played the _Adagietto_ banally, and listened to him weave a spell with his version of it. Unlike last week, I tried to communicate with him by replicating a few signs I’d learned, but he remained as unresponsive as last week.

 

And there was a note lying in my case when I returned home from the lesson, written in minimalistic cursive.

 

_The Adagietto is a story of the love between Mahler and his wife, Alma. I hope this’ll help you._

* * *

 

_So…. I need to be in love? But…. I have had a grand total of one boyfriend, which lasted for 24 hours, and he was kind of a jerk…._

_Maybe, he wants me to use his love of him? But…. that’s not love, just shallow infatuation of a handsome man….._

_Who else do I love? Passionately love? I mean, I have my family and friends, but our relationships aren’t of such an emotionally intense nature…._

The sound of a car horn pulled me out of my thoughts as one sped by, alerting me to the whipping of the wind against the trees and the music blaring from a nearby house and the sounds of everyday life, sounds I would’ve noticed three weeks ago….

 

_What happened?! What’s happening to me?! Have I gotten so caught up in music that I’ve forgotten everything else?!_

Impulsively, I began to run back home, even though my house was right next to his…. how long had I been standing in the road?!

 

* * *

 

“.....have I ever told you that you remind me of my daughter?” he asked me during our next lesson. After I got home after the last one, I’d decided to shelve the _Adagietto_ for a bit and work on everything else, and my playing’d gotten a little more interesting.

 

However, I was still driving myself insane about the note and he’d just shocked me out of it.

 

_You can talk?! You’re not deaf?!_

“....no?” I answered, as he pulled out an image of a girl with long blonde hair and blue-green eyes who was wearing a pink dress. She did look like me…. and I needed to play something, so I grabbed a piece of music, stuck it onto the stand, and began to play.

 

I had no idea which piece it was.

 

It was also the first thing I’d played that I could remember that didn’t bore me to death.

 

* * *

 

The first thing I noticed during my next lesson was that the house wasn’t nearly as silent as it’d been during the past few lessons. There was an odd sort of echoing sound vibrating through it, like the ghost of a song…. and there were a few photos sitting in the corner of the room.

 

“What happened to your daughter?” I blurted out as I was unpacking my violin and music. He didn’t answer…. so either he didn’t hear me or I’d touched on a topic that was overly-personal.

 

_I really would like to interact with you, just so you know. You’re a lot more interesting that way._

“Who’re in the pictures?” I asked, walking by the piano and picking one up, which was of him and a woman with brown hair that was in green. Behind me, he appeared to be tapping on the keys of the piano with his fingernails….

 

“.....that’s of myself and my wife…. the rest of them are a variety of photos from my life, and I do not see how they would help you in the development of musical artistry.” he answered, removing the photo from my hands before he put it back. “Shall we begin with the _Adagietto_?”

 

_How did you know why I was here?! I never told you why I began turning up for lessons…._

“Why else would you have turned up on my doorstep in the manner you did?” he answered, like he’d read my mind.

 

* * *

 

_I don’t know if I’d prefer to keep thinking he was deaf, for he seems really closed-off about his life?_

_Most people who act like that have really depressing lives. Most people don’t like to talk about depressing things._

_At least you can ask him about how to improve. That’s something…._

The only sound I noticed was the music ringing in my ears from the lesson.

 

_What happened to the rest of the sounds? Where did they go? Why did I stop caring about them?_

_Why was I losing my first passion?!_

* * *

 

_To achieve transcendence, one must suffer. One can only achieve greatness through loss._

Where had this note came from? Why was it sitting on top of the _Adagietto_ , and when did he place it into the folder?!

 

_Who did I love and lose?! What did I love and lose? Why-_

Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place. I hadn’t lost a person, but a bit of how I saw the world.

 

* * *

 

I’m going back to his house today. I know that he isn’t expecting me, but I’ve finally figured out how to play the _Adagietto_ , and maybe everything else as well.

 

I lost one dream, only to gain another. And I’m going to thank him for his help with my music.

 

 


	5. Skeletons In My Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an abstract reflection on how history is filled with nations committing immoral acts.

As much as we try to pretend that we’ve never been horrible people at any points in our lives, we all have skeletons in our closets.

 

I’m surprised that no one’s brought up mine yet. Then again, I’m a good person.

 

Or in the very least, I try to be.

 

* * *

 

Admittedly, a lot of other dark things happened around then, so mine just gets buried underneath a pile of more important darkness coming from crazier people…. but it still happened.

 

It’s bad to live in denial for eternity, forever running from things you did that you technically had no control over….. and denying the random pain that shows up for no reason, the pain that occurs with such regularity that you get used to it after a few years.

 

But you’ll find out the truth someday, find a pile of bodies that you murdered…. and allow the world to shatter to glass in front of your eyes.

 

Is it worse to live in a state of perpetual denial or perpetual self-loathing? I honestly don’t know the answer, I’ve never tried to do either of them, and I don’t want to.

 

Instead, I’m a good person to make up for years of mass murder. Exactly what happened has faded away from the world’s consciousness, and they don’t see me as a psychopath.

 

Even though they should.

 

* * *

 

Both of my brothers have noticed that there are certain people I never talk to during meetings. I just lightly brush it off, not wanting to worry them, but the truth is that I physically _can’t_ , for I keep hallucinating them as corpses.

 

And I’m pulling the trigger.

 

 


	6. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I try my hand at romance, featuring Austria, Hungary, and the fall of the Iron Curtain.

There’s someone knocking on my front door at three in the morning. I have no idea why I heard them, but I supposed we’ve all been hyper-alert after the wall fell down and the sudden attempts at putting two halves of a continent back together after all the years of separation….

 

“Hello? Who is this?” I ask, climbing out of bed and debating whether or not it matters to the person at my door that I look like an absolute mess right now.

 

“....I have no idea what you just said?” the person at the door answers, and they sound incredibly familiar, even though I’m sure the last time I interacted with her was about…. thirty years ago? Forty?

 

_Eighty?_

_No, let’s not think about that, when she’s somehow standing on my front doorstep at three in the morning. I’d vastly prefer to think about something happier…._

Impulsively, I rush towards my door and wrench it open, and she’s turned the porchlight on…. and there she is, a beautiful woman in green, standing at my front door and I have no idea why she’s here at such an early time and when there’s so much else both of us have to work on and worry about….

 

“I wasn’t expecting you to…. perform such a stunning impression of a very confused wall?” she asks, grabbing my hand as I try to think of something to say to alleviate the atmosphere between us, turn it into something more pleasant….

 

_Well, you’re just going to have to say something, and I don’t suppose the wall impersonation is going to help you at all._

_You might as well revert to emotional expression for a bit, and see how that goes._

“.....welcome back, Elizaveta… I’ve-” I begin, before she drags me back into my house and I begin to smile for the first time since we’ve begun to sort out how to glue a continent back together.

 

I suppose, that within moments of stress, it is best to find happiness in love.  

  
  
  



	7. A Brief History of Romanian Gymnastics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I am a massive gymnastics fan, and write about Romanian women's gymnastics from their nation's perspective.

She supposed that it all began with Nadia.

 

Okay, technically, that wasn't true. It all began with Elena Leusteanu-Popa twenty years earlier, but no one cared about her.

 

But, with Nadia…. the effect was like a star exploding. From the tens to her releases to her precision to her floatiness to her floor routines…. the audience loved her every move. And it shot her and her gymnastics program onto the world’s stage, proving that there was more to her than being some mindless drone on the wrong side of the curtain and vampires.

 

A new challenger to Soviet hegemony had emerged. And she’d do anything to surpass Anya.

 

(If one were to look closely into the stands in Montreal, they’d find a rather skinny and pale-looking woman in red with blonde hair watching all of the gymnastics events.

 

She wasn’t only cheering for Nadia, but Teodora as well.)

 

* * *

 

Once the star’d exploded onto the world stage, she’d do anything to keep it there, anything to surpass Anya and prove that she had no control over her, that wasn’t just a doll….

 

She could ignore the child abuse and age falsifications and gymnast switches and floor routines that looked like they’d been choreographed by crazed demons. As long as the girls were medaling, it didn’t matter…. and she hadn’t killed anyone.

 

(That’s what she told herself, but it wasn’t true. Even years later, there are times when she wants to visit all of the broken girls, and apologize.

 

But they’d have no idea who she was.)

 

* * *

 

She thought 1984 would be a time to show the world her dominance. With the massive boycott going on, the only top contender left was her.

 

So what if the event was in America? They didn’t have anyone remotely near the level of Ekaterina Szabo, or even the level of Cristina Grigoras, and, strangely enough, there wasn’t  much favoritism four years ago, and that event was held in Russia.

 

(As it turned out, there were a few surprises and some overscoring. She’d come home with seven medals and five golds, but the girl that got everyone’s attention was American.

 

Personally, she thinks Ekaterina would’ve won if the event was held anywhere else.)

 

* * *

 

Her favorite year is 1987. This was due to her defeat of Anya and the trio of tens on floor exercise and her wins in all of the events sans one.

 

If she had to chose a favorite team, this would be it. If this was a year later, the world would’ve been enamored with every single aspect of the girls, from their grace to their energy to their power. This boded incredibly well for 1988.

 

(Unfortunately, dominance didn’t happen. She wished for it to happen, but it didn’t, thanks to some dodgy scoring.

 

One of her favorite memories is of sitting in the stands with Albena and talking about the performances of Daniela Silivas and Diana Dudeva and Gabriela Potorac, lamenting the scoring of everyone else, and generally bemoaning lost potential and injuries.

 

At least there was always next year.)

 

* * *

 

Sport would always remain a constant in this world. Even as revolution flared, gymnastics would remain beautifully powerful.

 

(Personally, she’s glad. Between Ceausescu and Anya, there were times when she wanted to just grab a gun and shoot all three of them.

 

The only reason she didn’t do anything was because of her younger sister.)

 

Even as the main training center was forced to close due to the bloodshed and who knows how many of the girls were swept up in the chaos, the performances of Cristina Bontas and Lavinia Milosovici would remain engraved in her mind.

 

She’d gotten the both the first and last tens. It’s a fitting bookend, for the end of an era.

 

* * *

 

The world took their eyes off her gymnastics after 1992, but it didn’t matter one bit. So what if they were regarded as boring?

 

While the world focused on Khorkina and Huilan and Podkopayeva and Miller, they didn’t notice the pair of girls who consistently medaled at nearly every event, becoming two of the most decorated gymnasts ever.

 

(Actually, that isn’t true. The world did notice her in the context of nudity scandals and murder scandals and just scandals in general.

 

Personally, she didn’t blame the girls one bit for their actions.)

 

* * *

 

Andreea Raducan was a bit like a breath of expressive, fresh air.

 

(Admitted, this was due to how she’d begun to notice that those who declared the rest of the team relatively boring actually had a few points in their favor. But only a few.)

 

Despite the vault fiasco, she was still able to spearhead a Romanian sweep of the all-around, shooting herself nation into the world’s eye again.

 

(The pseudoephedrine scandal did not happen. That was the result of an idiotic doctor.

 

To her, Andreea is still the true winner of that event. Simona can still say that she invented one of the world’s hardest vaults.)

 

* * *

 

2004 was her second favorite year after 1987. Yet again, her team had dominated, and this time, the world was there to see it all.

 

Like in 1987, they were enthralled with the girls’ power and energy, and there was no doubt that they were they best in the world.  

 

(Actually, she’s not sure which year she liked better. Both years featured her in the stands, wildly cheering for her girls.

 

If one were to take the 1987 and 2004 teams and hybridize them, and throw a few of the others in the mix, then that’d be her favorite.

 

So, in short, she couldn’t choose.)

 

* * *

 

And then it all started falling apart. She supposed that it was all the fault of the code change. Sure, there were a few standouts like Steliana Nistor and Sandra Izbasa, but overall, her results were a far cry from her dominance in 2004 and both China and America were surpassing her….

 

(At least she’d won a gold in 2008….)

 

The years after dawned with promise, but all of the new batch either fell apart, retired too early, or got injured. Or all three, until only a few were left.

 

(There is a part of her that wants to go back in time and find a way to make Ana Porgras and Raluca Haidu and Diana Bulimar and everyone else she can think of remain uninjured and consistent and still beautiful….)

 

She still has her memories of 1987 and 2004 and Nadia and Ekaterina and Andreea, but she can’t live in them forever.

 

At least, there’s still Larisa Iordache.

 

 


	8. Scar Tissue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I am inspired by wikipedia to write about the South Korean suicide rate.

_Slash._

It’s happening again. Someone’s chosen to end their life, and another scar is appearing on my body. Blood pours out from the wound as I sit in my chair at the meeting and try not to scream, try to stop the flow of guilt that slices at my body like knives, blaming me for killing another person…..

 

I don’t know why I haven’t gotten used to this. It’s been happening so often over the past few years, but they’ve always said that I’ve been immature.

 

Maybe I’m still a child. Maybe I still retain a child’s idealism and hope. Maybe I can scream in the middle of this meeting.

 

After all, I can just tell them that I’ve invented something. Like suicide.

 

* * *

 

_Slash._

One of the perks of being immortal is that your wounds heal almost instantly. Unfortunately, they occur so often that my skin is covered in mazes and mazes of scars, an endless labyrinth of despair and death…. and none of the others have any clue that this is going on.

 

Does this happen to any of them? When people kill themselves, scars appear?

 

Even if it did happen to them, I don’t think they’d peg me as the sort of person to be severely affected by them. After all, I don’t act like how you’d expect your average victim of severe trauma to act.

 

For one, I’m much too happy. That’s deliberate. I have no clue if my real personality is actually that happy, or if I’m just as badly traumatized as most people with scars are.

 

Also, by being obnoxious, it means that no one gets too close to me.

 

* * *

 

_Slash._

I’m running out of space on my skin. The vast majority of spots I can find have at least one scar on them, and most of them have several.

 

Thankfully, none of them are visible. Yet.

 

Once I run out of covered skin, will they become visible? Will they start to scar my internal organs, until I die as well, only to be reborn over and over again due to the stress? I don’t know. Every single answer scares me, and there are no open doors.

 

My body is a cage, and within it I hold my despair.

 

 


	9. The Drunken Escapades of Japan and Hungary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Japan and Hungary get drunk and write stuff.

"....this is.... very.... interesting?" I hear, as I open my eyes to a pile of paper and bottles of alcohol lying in front of me. It's become a sort of unofficial tradition for the two of us to get drunk on the eve of meetings and indulge in writing our perverted fantasies of everyone else to relieve stress, but this is the first time I've heard him react in total shock. 

 

"People do come up with interesting things when completely inebriated, don't you agree?" I quip, lifting myself out of the sea of pages and almost hitting my head on the desk I'd been lying under for who knows how much time, grabbing a stack of paper that almost falls onto my chest.  

 

"....what is more interesting is that you thought that our incoherent vulgar mess was good enough to get published." he replies, passing his laptop to me. 

 

_Please tell me what publisher in their right mind would accept at least 30 chapters of horribly written sex scenes that are primarily in Japanese and Hungarian. Especially when we're somewhere that doesn't speak either of them._

 

Unfortunately, the laptop displays the first chapter of some story about someone lying in their bed. Bizarrely enough, it also appears to be a direct English translation of the first page in the pile of paper that I'm holding....

 

_So, sometime last night, I ran this thing through a translator, made an account for whatever this site is, and posted this._

 

_Well, that explains a bit...._

 

"You're really going to chide me for putting this on the internet, when you've done this as well? Remember, the one with the-" I begin, before he tosses another pile of paper at me, his face completely devoid of expression as usual. 

 

"....this is not the only account we've created." he answers, pulling up what looks like an endless march of pages, each proudly displaying a single horribly-written heavily sexual story about our fellow nations. A few of them sound vaguely familiar, like we wrote them in drunken dreams and promptly forgot about them.... which was the origin of every single work currently marching across the laptop screen. 

 

"So, your point is that the two of us are responsible for an epidemic of horrible fiction about personified nations." I remark. The good news was, hopefully no one'd actually  _find_ any of this stuff, and no one in their right mind would read more that one word. 

 

"....I suppose we are.... so, let's just send all this stuff through the paper-shredder and forget it ever existed. Agree?" he asks, pulling one out of nowhere and stuffing all of the pages into it. I decided that this was a wise course of action, and joined him in destroying our drunkenly perverted mess. 

 

Hopefully, he'd have one with him next time. 

 

 


End file.
